


Inhale, Exhale

by MrTobyWednesday



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrTobyWednesday/pseuds/MrTobyWednesday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan always smells like the Waking Sea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inhale, Exhale

**Author's Note:**

> I like the idea of the Ostwick Circle tower being close to the shore. Also, maritime forest. Because why not.

Dorian knows, even before he hears the footsteps or the gentle cough from behind him, whenever Trevelyan approaches his little alcove. Leliana’s crows are restless and noisy in the rookery as he peruses the bookshelves or lounges in his seat; the incessant flapping and cawing from above makes Trevelyan almost soundless as he climbs the stairs, anyway. What tips Dorian off every time is the scent of the Waking Sea, and how gradually it wafts up to his nose. It isn’t pungent by any means – just the smell of brine and seaweed, earthy notes hidden underneath, like Trevelyan had just stepped off of the beach. The smell doesn’t accost him, either; it’s subtle and he rarely notices it right away, not unless he’s expecting it. Though, by now, he finds he often _is_ expecting it, and more specifically, the company that follows.

So he turns at the first sign of it, closes his book and gently sets it aside, inhaling notes of sea spray and mineral salt and forest soil. It all clings to Trevelyan like he’d lived his whole life _on_ the beach, rather than near it – though neither idea is probably far off the mark; Maker knows how much time Trevelyan must have spent there whenever they allowed him to leave the Circle tower throughout his life. A safe place to escape to when they allowed him the luxury. Dorian briefly imagines him, both of them, young and strong and together, breathing in the wet air as waves crash against the shore, exploring every tide pool, ducking into the forest where it meets the sandy beach and feeling the mud clumping under their toes.

Trevelyan smiles like he can read Dorian’s thoughts, and Dorian finds himself wondering – not for the first time – if he tastes anything like he smells. “Briny” was never a taste that he thought he would contemplate enjoying, but the soft lilt of Trevelyan’s voice, the way Dorian’s name rolls off his tongue easily like he’s said it a thousand times, the curl of his lips when he darts his tongue out to wet them, it makes him _want_. To touch, and to kiss, but mostly Dorian just wants to pull Trevelyan close, burying his nose against the junction of his neck and shoulder so he can inhale as deeply as possible. He doesn’t, though – merely smiles back, politely or affectionately, he can’t really tell the difference anymore. Trevelyan steps closer, bringing that open sea smell with him, and Dorian can almost make himself dizzy on it as they chat.

\------

Fortunately, the aromas of sex and sweat do little to overpower what Dorian has learned is a very _Ostwick_ scent. The smell of the harbor, Trevelyan had told him, permeates the air hanging over the city-state and even the Circle tower. It sticks to his skin and Dorian presses his nose to Trevelyan’s collarbone so he can inhale it. It makes him think first of wind and sun, driftwood and calm waters, but then he thinks of waves battering the shoreline, of seabirds circling overheard and the sky heavy with storm clouds. Mostly, though, he thinks of Trevelyan standing in the middle of it all, toes dug into the sand as the wind whips his hair and stings his eyes. He thinks of Trevelyan on an overhanging cliff, peering down at the shore and the water swirling below him.

Dorian breathes in again, and presses a gentle kiss to wet, dark skin.

“That tickles,” he hears Trevelyan hum, far from a protest. “Again.” Dorian smiles against him and brushes his lips up Trevelyan’s collarbone; Trevelyan shifts to lay on his back, and Dorian curls close and kisses his sternum. They lay in companionable silence like that, Trevelyan’s hand in Dorian’s hair and Dorian laying his head on Trevelyan’s chest. They listen to each other’s breathing, steady and even, until Trevelyan breaks the silence.

“You smell like old books,” he says, bluntly. Dorian cracks a grin up at him like he’s going to get snarky, but lets him keep talking. “Ink and worn pages. All those heavy tomes you lug up to my quarters. I like keeping them open sometimes, just for the smell. Especially when they’re leather bound. Makes me think of you.”

Dorian flushes, and Trevelyan just smiles at him like he’s his whole world. It scares him, almost, but Trevelyan’s touch and smell keep him grounded. He inhales, exhales, and smiles again.

“I love you,” he says, and it comes to him easier than it ever had before.


End file.
